


When You're Noticing Me

by shadow_lover



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Closet Sex, Jealousy, Knifeplay, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Scarification, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-12 22:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12969459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: Everyone knows that Abel belongs to Cain. But nobody seems to consider that Cain belongs to Abel, too.





	When You're Noticing Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pearlylightning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearlylightning/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, pearlylightning! Thank you for giving me the opportunity to write these two, and I hope you enjoy the fic.

He’s talking with one of the mechanics, because a valve’s loose on the Reliant after their last dogfight. Nothing changes, but he knows the moment Cain walks into the room. He doesn’t have to turn around to check. There’s just a footstep and a chill in the already-chilly air, and across the hangar, another pair of fighters turns and scowls.

The mechanic doesn’t stop talking, because he doesn’t know any better.

The hangar seems smaller, the cold metal walls closing in like a cage. The mechanic’s been friendly. Helpful. He’s got an easy smile. Abel can tell that’s going to be a problem as Cain slinks around and leans against the nose of the Reliant.

“Let me show you how to check,” the mechanic says, and waves towards the back. He’s standing too close, and Abel sees Cain’s jaw clench. Yeah. Problem. They can’t afford a scene right now. Cain’s still in trouble after the last incident.

So Abel holds Cain’s gaze as he touches his lip, and he’s hot deep down, pleased, at the way Cain swallows. At the slice of Cain’s gaze, sharp as teeth.

And Cain settles down. He’s still watching way too intently, but he stays silent as the mechanic walks Abel through the inspection protocols.

⚹

Cain shoves him into a storage closet. At least, _shove_ is how Abel would describe it to anyone else. But it’s really less a shove, more a tug. An invitation.

This is easier if it’s all Cain pushing, but it’s not. It hasn’t been for a while now.

It’s Cain’s hands at his waist and Cain’s breath in his ear and this indescribable shiver in the air, and Abel barely has a chance to close the door before he’s up against the wall. Whether Cain lifts or he jumps, it’s hard to say, but then he’s off the ground, legs wrapped around Cain’s hips. 

When he sinks his hand into Cain’s hair, when he twists, Cain shudders. Abel doesn’t say anything, because if he does, Cain will snarl, insult, deflect. Instead, he kisses Cain’s jaw and twists harder until Cain groans, low in his ear.

They don’t have time or space to do it properly in here. As if they’re ever proper about anything. Cain doesn’t even reach for his zipper, just cups him through his uniform pants. His grip is rough and the friction should chafe but Abel doesn’t care. Each firm slide of Cain’s fingers feels so good, until Cain isn’t even moving. He doesn’t have to, when Abel’s rutting desperately into his grip.

He buries his face in Cain’s shoulder, lungs searing—

“Look at me,” Cain demands, voice rough, and Abel groans, uncurls, throws his head back against the closet wall. He’s pinned by Cain’s body, by his gaze, hot, possessive, and Abel knows he’s not just talking about right now.

It’s controlling. Psychotic. It shoots comet-hot down Abel’s spine, and his legs tighten around Cain’s hips.

Cain holds his face as he comes. Palm flush against his jawline. Thumb gently stroking along his lower lip, tingling, and lingering on the scar.

⚹

The navigators’ meeting runs late, and by the time Abel arrives at lunch, the mess hall’s mostly full. A sea of white and a sea of black, so organically separated. His usual spot next to Ethos is clear, but the rest of the table is taken up by other navigators. He spots Cain at another table nearby, crowded between other fighters.

Including Deimos, at his left side, leaning too close.

Abel’s gut twists. He sets his tray down very carefully. He slides into his seat very carefully. He smiles at Ethos, who smiles back, and he waits until his hands unclench from the sharp edges of the tray before looking back up across the room.

Just in time to catch Cain’s frown before it melts away into that intolerable smirk. Cain’s right hand lifts in a fluttering little wave that Abel can call _cute_ in the safety of his own mind, where Cain can’t smack him for it.

Cain’s left elbow juts out on the table, an impromptu wall between him and Deimos, and Abel find himself somewhat mollified. Still... Deimos should know better by now.

_But should he, really?_

Everyone knows that Abel belongs to Cain. But nobody seems to consider that Cain belongs to Abel, too.

⚹

That night, Cain lays him out on the mattress and bites his neck, and Abel shudders. He runs his hands down Cain’s arching back. His fingertips catch on spine and rib and muscle and scars Abel hasn’t yet dared asked how he got. Cain is marked by training, by fighting. By living.

Not by Abel.

“Is something wrong?” Cain pants, pushing himself up.

Abel can’t explain. Not here, not now. This moment is _his_. He breathes, “Kiss me,” and pulls Cain into him.

And they fit together, gasping into each other’s mouths, fingers locking, eyes screwed shut because they don’t need to see like this. Cain’s hand curls around his cock, presses down over his balls. Abel moans. He’s as helpless to this tenderness as anything else. Cain’s still _kissing_ him, breathless, all the universe is empty and there’s no need for plans and strategy to find their way to—

But when Cain’s tongue presses against his lip, curls into the indentation, all Abel can think is, this isn’t enough.

⚹

His hands shake as he opens the medkit. Sets it on one of the mattresses on the floor, along with the scalpel he lifted from the infirmary. He pauses there, one hand on the blanket, and struggles for calm. There’s an unfamiliar coldness in his fingers and heat spreading from the bridge of his nose over his cheeks. He stares down at the stark white medkit against the plain gray blanket and realizes he’s nervous.

He’s been nervous with Cain before. Hard not to be; the man’s a live wire. A mad dog. But this is new. Almost like the time he asked if they could switch, but even that—he’d have been okay if Cain said no to that.

He won’t be okay if Cain says no to this.

 _Fuck. Maybe this is too soon._ He scrubs his hand over his face, catches his breath, staggers to his feet. He’s got time. He can put this away. He can—

The door pings. He turns as it opens.

Cain slouches in, says, “Hey, pretty boy,” and freezes. He pauses with one hand against the doorframe, taking in the tableau before him: Abel in his undershirt, jaw clenched, and the medkit on the mattress. Abel feels the weight of his gaze, assessing, seeking— “You’re not hurt,” Cain says, cautiously. 

He can’t ask, Abel realizes. He shouldn’t have to. He won’t. Cain is his. That’s all there is to it. He twists his shirt off and says, “Fuck me, Cain.”

And Cain laughs. He complains he’s tired. But he obeys.

He says, “Look who’s getting needy,” but his suit’s on the floor in no time flat, and he’s crawling onto their bed. Crawling on top of Abel, and helping as Abel wriggles his pants and underwear off.

Heat builds between them, Cain’s body hums under his hand, and it’s not unlike navigating. Except that’s science, and this is _magic_. Cain’s hand skims up his waist, over his ribs, hot as a brand, the simplest press of Cain’s thigh against his own. 

Abel chases a kiss. It’s artless, messy, just two open mouths sliding together. Cain kisses his cheek. His jaw. Nips at his neck—the blossom of pain is a reminder.

He has a mission today. He pushes. “Get up, let me…”

Cain lets him up. Abel shoves until Cain’s sitting back against the wall and Abel’s spread over his lap. He shivers as Cain’s broad hands smooth down his spine. Moans as Cain grips his ass and drags him closer. He rubs against Cain’s bare cock, and the friction is almost as sweet as the way Cain hisses and bites his lip and holds him even closer. 

Flushed, cold, unmoored by how much he wants the man he already has, Abel kisses him once more, then leans to the side. 

“Hey,” Cain protests, but his hands come up automatically to steady Abel at the waist as he fumbles in the medkit. When he sits back up in Cain’s lap, carefully, the scalpel glints silver between his fingers.

Cain freezes, mouth open.

Then he laughs. “That’s not a fair fight, but you know I’ll still kick your ass.”

“It’s never been fair,” Abel says. His voice shakes. His hand doesn’t. “You had me the day we met. You marked me. You _claimed_ me.”

“Yeah. I did.” Cain’s gaze flickers between the scalpel and the scar on Abel’s lips. His hands tighten on Abel’s ass. His cock is hot and hard against Abel. It hasn’t softened at all. “Are you trying to even the scales? Life isn’t fair, Abel.”

Abel licks his lips, and slowly moves his arm. He holds the scalpel between them. “It’s not about fair,” he says. “I’d do it even if you hadn’t. I just want them all to know you’re mine.”

Cain shivers under him, and his eyes widen for an instant. A moment of truth—a moment of want—before he laughs like armor. “Wow. You’re turning into a kinky little bastard.”

His hands slide forward, over Abel’s hips, up his waist, fire against his bare skin, and Abel knows he’s won. Cain leans up into a kiss, soft, and when they part for breath, Abel asks, “Do you want to pick where I cut?”

Cain’s next breath is ragged. For a long moment, it’s the only sound in the room. Then, slowly, he removes his left hand from Abel’s waist, and touches above his eye. “Here,” he says, roughly. “So you know I’m always…”

Abel waits a moment for the rest of it, but Cain’s jaw is clenched, and he’s looking away. That’s okay. Abel doesn’t need the _why_ right now. They have all the time in the universe.

Well. They have as much time as they get, anyway. 

“Okay,” Abel says. “Should we do it like this?”

This time, Cain’s laughter isn’t armor. It’s low, it’s warm, it’s the crack in it all, that pure note of surprise. It’s why Abel wants him.

“However you want, babe.” Cain’s eyes flicker away again. “But do it fast, before I change my mind.”

His hands are bruising-tight on Abel’s hips. His cock is hard against Abel’s, and his whole body tenses as Abel lightly touches his chest. Fuck. He’s never been so responsive before, never thrummed to Abel’s touch like this before. A warm, light giddiness kindles in Abel. The harsh fluorescent lighting catches every harsh and soft line of Cain. His skin is so warm under his fingertips. His chest. His neck. Beneath his jaw. His cheek, under the scratch of stubble. 

The scalpel’s cold in Abel’s right hand, but warming fast.

His hand slides around to sink into Cain’s hair. “Stay still,” he orders softly.

Cain closes his eyes. The only movement in the world is his ribs, rising and falling, and Abel’s pulse, rising and rising and rising. Abel runs his thumb over Cain’s brow, considers where to start, where to finish. It’s stupid, considering his own scar was so haphazard, so violent—

But he’s not the same as Cain.

He braces his wrist on Cain’s cheek, feels his faint breath on his arm, feels the heat of him all over. He exhales, and the edge of metal meets skin in a sharp kiss. Cain bites his lip, and the pause between heartbeats is eternity before the blood wells up.

Abel concentrates fully on the task at hand. He can’t think of Cain clutching his hips, Cain hard against him, Cain _flushing_. Can’t think of his own building need. He concentrates entirely on the careful slide of metal through Cain’s skin, parting the very end of his eyebrow, just past the corner of his eye.

He lifts the scalpel from Cain’s face, and sets it carefully in the medkit. Before he’s fully upright again, before he can check if Cain’s okay, Cain’s surging upwards again, and this kiss is—

Wow. Okay, so Cain’s _into this_. Abel tries to pull back, manages, “Hey,” but Cain’s hand is at his jaw, holding him in place. Abel can’t breathe and doesn’t want to. 

He hardly notices Cain’s other hand leaving his hip until he hears the lube pop open. He must have grabbed it from under the mattress. Abel drags himself away from Cain’s lips to say, “Wait, I should patch you up.”

A bright red ribbon runs down Cain’s face. The ends of it unfurl towards his jaw. 

“Too late,” Cain says. It’s not about the cut. “No take-backs.”

He slicks his fingers and reaches between them. His movements are slow and deliberate and he doesn’t look away once. Abel’s breath catches as Cain presses into him—no hesitation, no teasing—two fingers stretching into him, and his nerves burn as brightly red as the blood spilling down Cain’s face.

“I’m ready,” Abel gasps, and Cain’s already pulling him up. He grabs his cock, sliding the rest of the lube over, and then drives Abel down.

He isn’t ready, maybe, but he wants this stretch. He wants to reshape himself to fit Cain—his insides shifting around his cock, his thighs bruising under Cain’s hands. He rocks down, shifts, whimpers as heat sparks through him. He runs his hands up Cain’s arms, savoring the tension, and then Cain jerks up into him just right and all he can do is clutch Cain’s shoulders and struggle for breath.

“Look at me,” he pants, when Cain’s eyes screw shut with concentration.

Cain’s grin sharpens, and he’s just as breathless as Abel when he answers, “You fucking idiot. I always am.”

Then his face tightens, and his whole body beneath Abel, and the blood reaches his neck as he shudders up into him. Abel’s right hand slips in the blood, and he has to brace himself on Cain’s chest instead. Still slipping, a smeared red handprint, and this mark is temporary but the slice above his eye—

Abel doesn’t know if they’ll last forever. Doesn’t know if they’ll get the chance to try. But they’ve changed each other, and now Cain will bear the proof of that for all to see.

“Abel,” Cain murmurs, and that’s all he needs. He comes, shaking, in Cain’s arms. 

He’s too dizzy to move, after, and as far as he can tell, so is Cain. They’re a mess. They need to get into the shower. But not yet.

For now, Cain slumps back against the wall, eyes closed. He looks the way Abel’s only ever seen him when he’s sleeping—didn’t think he could look like this awake—softer, dream-quiet, safe. 

His.

Abel can’t help it. He leans in, and presses his scarred lips to the cut above Cain’s eye.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Manchester Orchestra's [The Maze](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGiG0rsZdcM).


End file.
